She rode the second hand, silver and red BMX bike through the green and wooded park.
Stopping by a pawnshop, after walking and wandering, she bought with her little money.
She rode it, her wild and unkempt hair blowing in veils and blinds, until well after dark.
She hid among the trees, not a prophet or full of grace, earing locusts and the wild honey.
She felt she needed to stay close to the green and wild life, stay in this pocket of growing.
The trees and grass pruned and shaped, but still alive and still like the world she knew.
Deep and dark forests and wide open meadows, the winds the dandelions were sowing.
Swallowed up by God’s upon mouth, the clouds his verdant tongue in skies so very blue.
There was a Garden of Martyrs, and the Saint Rachel had her coat of arms born there.
She dreamed of Saint Rachel, now and again, but no longer held her hand, lost all faith.
Faith wasn’t the sanctuary she was promised, the friends not noble, so she fell to despair.
Saint Rachel was an icon in her wallet, no whispers came now, no touch, Holy Wraith.
Yet, as summer was well and truly arrived, she rode out into the dismal city, to fight.
Her battered and reliable bike, her heart of spells, her true voice thin as onion paper.
Saint Rachel wept in the garden, and Judas grew impatient for War, knuckles white.
She rode onto those streets, swarming locusts, abandoned honey, on a moral caper.